Yesterday I went to the Homeless Memorial in St Kilda and I saw a ghost.
I was sitting next to Rachel as I guzzled Milo and chomped on chocolate cake.
That’s when I saw the ghost staring at me.
But I didn’t recognise the ghost, so I just turned away.
We sang songs, lit candles, and listened to the stories and words of others.
We observed a minute’s silence.
Then I went back to my stuffing my face with hot dogs and soup.
That’s when the ghost approached me in the marquee.
He remembered me from years gone by, though he did not say my name.
It took a few seconds for my mind to register who this ghost was.
He was gaunt compared to before.
Sunken cheeks, perhaps sunken morale.
Deep, dark circles under his eyes.
An incredibly lost look in his eyes.
What has caused him to look like this?
Financial worries? Drugs? Or just life?
We talked for a couple of minutes.
Then someone cut in to talk to the ghost and I took the chance to escape.
I went to get more Milo and chocolate cake, but the stand had packed up.
But I won’t hold it against the ghost for holding me up, for he is just a man, though only a ghost of the man he once was.
I can only pray that next time I see that ghost he is in better shape, for I do not want that memory of the ghost to haunt me.
By David B
